


Five Times Abigail Whistler Has Hannibal King Flat On His Back (And The Times He Returns The Favour)

by alyse



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Post Movie, Romance, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/pseuds/alyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times over the course of their relationship that Abigail Whistler manages to put Hannibal King flat on his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Abigail Whistler Has Hannibal King Flat On His Back (And The Times He Returns The Favour)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [auburn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburn/gifts).



> For auburn, written as a treat for you. I hope you like it, even if very little of it is set post-movie. I hadn't realised you'd requested this fandom and pairing until a couple of days before the deadline and this is what my brain came up with in the time I had!
> 
> Many, many thanks to my beta and cheerleaders, who poked me and encouraged me when I didn't think I'd get it done in time. Any remaining issues are my own.

The first time Abigail has King flat on his back it's because she's knocked his feet right out from under him.

He doesn't even try to get back up again as she moves to stand over him, her silver blade drawn and ready to strike, and maybe that's why she hesitates. 

She's expecting a fight, for him to twist and curse and try to break free. It's what she's used to but it seems that this particular vampire has no intention of doing the expected. Instead of fighting her, one on one, he simply stares up at her, the look in his eyes even emptier than the others of his kind, before he smirks, his expression morphing into something cocksure and challenging.

The sudden switch makes her blink.

"What are you waiting for, sweetheart? An engraved invitation?"

He spreads his arms wide open, his smirk deepening as she frowns down at him.

It's chaos all around them, the sounds of gunshots and screams and the scent of burning vampire flesh as silver weapons find their mark, but the world narrows down to nothing but the two of them - just her and this vampire who wants to die. But Abigail's nowhere near as naïve as some of the older hunters think, and there's got to be a catch.

There's always a catch.

That makes the decision easy - she steps back and lowers her blade, watching him carefully all the while, not missing the expression of frustrated and baffled fury that flashes across his face or the despair that follows it.

It's gone in an instant, leaving him glaring up at her, whatever masks he's pulling on, one after another, firmly in place. 

"Seriously," he bitches, face screwing up into something that in a human she'd describe as petulant. "Can't I ever catch a fucking break? I'm not even worth staking now?"

She tilts her head and looks at him, really looks at him, sprawled there on the floor and wearing not much more than a pissed off expression. She's about to say something - something suitably sarcastic - when his eyes dart to her left. He opens his mouth, but she's already spinning, kicking out smoothly with the spring blade hidden in her boot.

She hits something at head height, something that screams and bursts into flames, raining ash and dust down around her.

The momentum of her blow pivots her neatly around and she ends up exactly where she started, glaring down at a too smart-mouthed for his own good vampire, the one she has the stupid idea might even have tried to warn her. He's still staring up at her, open-mouthed with shock, and then he closes his mouth abruptly, swallowing hard. "Impressive," he says, seeming suitably awed. 'Cowed' was obviously too much to hope for. "Now, why the hell would you stake that loser when you're not willing to stake me, huh?"

She holds his gaze for a long, considering moment before she finally says, "Maybe he was more my type."

His mouth falls open again, this time in a delighted grin. "Touché," he says, and he sounds like he means it. He hasn't moved or used the distraction as a chance to escape. It gives her pause - it's like he really does want her to kill him, like maybe this isn't a trick. 

Maybe this is what she gets for being a good girl all year - just what she wanted and gift-wrapped, too.

She takes her eyes off him for long enough to stare around the room, hyperaware of him while she does so just in case he finally decides to find his balls and make a break for it. She doesn't expect him to and this time he doesn't disappoint, limiting himself to raising up onto his elbows and shooting her another pissed look that she ignores.

The chaos has died down a little while she's been focused on him, the fire and the fury of the battle faded to nothing more than small piles of ash where his vampire compatriots fought and died. It doesn't look like any of the vampires survived besides the one still reclining at her feet - and she swallows down a sigh and a pissed comment of her own.

Markham is glaring at her captive. He moves like he's about to head in their direction and she shifts her stance again, clearly telling him that this one's hers and he'd better keep his fucking distance, not even think of muscling in on her kill.

Although the killing part is still open to debate.

The vamp sighs, the sound too loud and melodramatic to be genuine. She slowly turns her head back towards him, not giving him the satisfaction of rushing her, and he's back to staring up at her, craning his neck to do so.

"I don't want to hurry you," he says mildly, the sarcasm lying behind his words still coming through clearly, "but if you could get around to staking me sometime soon, I'd appreciate it. Getting kind of cold here."

Given how little he's wearing - nothing but a pair of loose, thin cotton pants that hang low on muscular hips - she'd buy it if it wasn't for that whole bloodless vampire thing.

"Bored?" she asks him with a switch-blade smile of her own.

"Extremely. So if you could, you know..."

She hefts the blade in her hand again, keeping her expression as unreadable as she can. It must work, because the vamp swallows again and closes his eyes, waiting to die.

He's shivering, and vampires really don't feel the cold.

She lowers her blade for the second and last time. "You're the only one left," she says, more to herself than to him, but his eyes fly open again anyway, searching her face. "All your friends are dead."

His expression hardens, his dark eyes taking on a flinty quality, something colder than the room, more remote.

"They're no fucking friends of mine," he snarls, fangs flashing in the light.

"Good," she says, all business, finally sheathing her knife. He stares at her, back to open-mouthed, his fire fading in the face of her certainty. "We've got a cure and you're our guinea pig."

It should be the start of a beautiful friendship or some crap like that, but she's pretty sure it's not.

Only it turns out that King **really** doesn't like doing the expected.

-o-

The second time Abigail has King flat on his back, it's because she's knocked his feet right out from under him. 

It's getting to be a habit, she thinks as she eyes him speculatively, wondering how long it's going to take him to get up this time. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry - he's sprawled across the mat, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

She's right - he takes his sweet time getting back to his feet again, and he watches her warily the whole time he does so. He's learning something at least. She doesn't know why the hell he expects her to go easier on him than Markham does - okay, maybe it's because Markham can be a vicious bastard at the best of time, and he seems to have a special hate on for King, not all of which can be put down to King's ex-vampire state. But still...

Abby's not exactly renowned for going soft on anyone, even if she doesn't dislike King anywhere near as much as Markham does.

King finally moves to face her again, reluctance clear in every line of his body as he adopts the stance she finally managed to drill into him. She waits until he's steadied himself and then she moves, a quick, sharp jab to the left and then - while he moves to counter - rapidly darting in the other direction and swinging around to sweep his feet out from under him again.

He goes down fast and he goes down hard, hitting the mat with a thud and a heartfelt "Ow."

"Again," she says mercilessly, not letting him catch his breath this time and ignoring the irritated look he shoots her. At least if he gets annoyed and tries something new it might break the monotony of her handing him his ass every single session. Plus, when they finally take him into the field, no one's going to wait until he's feeling up to round two, and taking him into the field is starting to look more and more like a sure thing. No matter how hard the rest of her crew are on him - and they're damned hard on him - he's not giving up on that as an end goal any time soon.

He pushes himself back to his feet, moving slower now as his aching muscles make themselves known. She swallows down a sigh, letting the tension and readiness ebb from her body as she prepares to call an end to the day's training. She's not Markham. She's not cruel just for the sake of being cruel. There's no point in pushing King past the point where he's too hurt to learn anything new.

She's about to tell him that - has opened her mouth to say it, in fact - when he stumbles towards her, like he's lost his balance because the muscles in his leg are watery and wavering. But he straightens half-way up at the last minute, his shoulder hitting her hard in the solar plexus.

He's bulked up a little since she spared him and Sommerfield gave him the cure, and he was big to start with. She goes down, just as hard and fast as he had.

It knocks the wind out of her - for a second, she literally cannot breathe.

King's face appears in her line of sight just as she finally manages to suck in a whooping breath. He doesn't look triumphant - he looks half-scared out of his wits and worried as hell.

"Jesus, Abby. Are you okay? I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

He holds out his hand, obviously trying to help her get back to her feet, but she ignores it. Instead, she punches him in the face, hard enough to send him rocking back on his heels, his eyes widening in shock and his hand flying to his nose.

Blood seeps through his fingers as she rolls herself over and pushes to her feet, staggering as her stomach muscles protest. She heads towards him, her expression like thunder, knocking him back to the ground when he tries to get up again and pinning him there with one booted foot on his shoulder.

This time he stays down, staring up at her warily and not making any moves that are going to get him into any more trouble. The look in his eyes is familiar - he's expecting to get hurt, hurt badly because she's angry with him, but he's not the only one who can confound expectations.

She leans in, lowering her voice.

"You knock someone down, King, you keep them down, got it? Don't lose your focus because you're feeling guilty. No one's going to give you any second chances. **No one**." 

"You did," he says, and his voice comes out muffled as he brings his fingers up to his nose again, touching it tentatively. "And I think you broke my nose."

That's not the only thing that she could have broken, but for once she doesn't point that out, not when his words have silenced her as effectively as any blow to the stomach. 

Damn him.

She steps back, putting a little distance between them. But not too much, it turns out.

"I guess I did," she says, not entirely sure which of his observations she's agreeing with. She reaches down and helps him haul himself to his feet, ignoring his grumbling about his nose and his ribs and everything else he's bitching about. What's important is that he positions himself again in the defensive stance she's taught him, ready to go again.

Guess he's capable of learning something after all.

-o-

The third time she knocks him on his ass it's to save his damned fool life. 

He doesn't spot the familiar aiming at his head but she does and she has a split second to act. She launches herself at him and the momentum when she hits sends him to his knees, skidding across the floor as the bullet whines overhead, striking the wall where his head had been only fractions of a second before. 

She follows him down, scooting rapidly on her hands and knees until she's safely behind the same overturned table that he's finally found the wit to shelter behind.

"Thanks," he gasps as he reloads his weapon. She grunts back, too busy checking her own weapon and trying to control the too-rapid beating of her heart, the tightness in her chest at the close call. King peers cautiously around their makeshift shelter only to jerk his head back when someone unseen fires off another volley of shots. "I owe you one."

She's out of bullets and King must be running low. How the hell do they keep getting themselves into these situations?

"You owe me several," she snaps, jerking her bow free from the harness on her back and hitting the button that reassembles it. At least her arrows might even the score. She steadies her breathing, pulling her mental armour back on and relegating yelling at him for being so fucking **reckless** until after all of this is over. "And you can start paying me back by learning how to duck."

-o-

The fourth time she ends up with him flat on his back in front of her, it's because someone really has shot him this time.

It's a long way from being a joking matter.

He's wearing Kevlar - something he started to do after the last close call, not that it would help with a head shot - but the bullet still hit him hard, sending him spinning to his knees. He got back up again, the way he always gets back up, and she helped him stagger as far as the van, but they'd barely hit the streets and lost any sign of pursuit before King collapsed.

At first she thinks it's just the motion of the van, that he'd lost his grip and stumbled, but this time he doesn't get back up again and he's letting out gasping little sounds, his face pale and etched with pain. His eyes are panicked when they meet hers and that's what sends her straight down to her knees beside him, already screaming for Dex.

King is fighting for breath but when she tries to help, fingers flying frantically to the fastenings of his vest as though loosening that will help, he scrabbles for her hand, gripping it tight enough to hurt, too tightly for her to twist free.

She stops struggling when she meets his eyes again and sees the fear in them. He's usually much, much better at hiding it than this and the fact that she can see it so clearly tells her just how terrified he is.

It sends fear surging through her again, panic yammering in her hindbrain as King continues struggling to breathe.

And then Dex is finally there, flinging himself into the back of the van to join them, not a moment too soon.

He was a paramedic, before. She just has to trust he was a good one.

She holds tightly onto King's hand, holds on while Dex carefully presses down on King's ribs, checking whether there's any give that would indicate that they're broken, and King grunts with pain, his face paling even more than she thought possible. She holds on while Dex's face twists in concern, his expression growing serious as he moves his hands down over King's side. She holds on, holds King's gaze, never looking away, trying to keep him calm while something inside her is breaking, sharp shards of grief leaving her struggling to breathe almost as badly as King is struggling.

"I think he's bleeding internally," Dex says eventually and the world narrows in focus, reduced to her and King, to the way that King is looking at her and the need to take some of that fear out of his eyes, nothing else. Nothing but the two of them and steady, calm monotone of the words that are spilling out of Dex's mouth as he works. "It's putting pressure on his lung, making it hard for him to breathe. I need to release the pressure and re-inflate his lung. Hold him steady, okay?"

He doesn't have to worry about that - she's not letting go of King. Not any time soon, not ever.

"It's going to be okay," she tells King, keeping her voice as calm as she can. It takes everything she has and even then it comes out thin and shaky. "It's going to be okay. Dex knows what he's doing."

He has to. She refuses to believe otherwise, tuning Dex out as he riffles through their meagre first aid box and pulls free a sterile blade. He has tubing, too, thin and plastic and god only knows where he got that from. She doesn't want to think about it.

She doesn't want to think.

Dex rolls King onto his uninjured side and she goes with him, down, down, down until she's lying on the floor next to him, his hand still gripped tightly in hers. His fingers are twitching restlessly, squeezing hers over and over again, like he's trying to pull her closer and can't quite manage it, or maybe just because it's the only part of him that can move right now and King is never still.

She presses the fingers of her free hand against his cheek, stroking his skin with her thumb as she tells him it's going to be okay, it is, it really is. He should trust Dex - Dex knows what he's doing.

He should trust her, and he does.

She can't help but look when the bloody fluid starts draining from his body and Dex tells King he has to cough, cough hard, cough even if it hurts like a motherfucker...

He does and his fingers tighten around hers again, this time hard enough to make her bite her lip so that she doesn't let out the cry of pain that's forcing its way the surface. But his breathing finally becomes less laboured and when that happens some of the panic finally fades from his eyes.

He doesn't let go of her hand, though, and she's got no intention of being anywhere else, not yet.

It's not until much later, after they've taken down Drake, and Danica is dead, that she gets why he was so frightened.

It's only when she sees the swollen bruises that Danica's neatly groomed fingers have left around King's neck that she understands just how much he fears being unable to breathe.

-o-

King's eyes are squeezed shut, his brow faintly furrowed and his lips parted. She braces herself against his chest, her fingers sliding through the soft hair that grows there, and watches his face, all of the expressions that flit across it as she moves above him.

His skin is slick with sweat and so is hers; she slides her palms down his ribs and leans in closer, rolling her hips and making him groan. His eyes fly open, glazed with pleasure, and his grip tightens on her hips, pulling her down onto him, sliding deeper into her.

It makes her gasp, too deep for comfort, stretching her around the base of his cock. Her body hasn't grown used to him yet, adapted to the girth of him or the way he fits inside her. It's still new, still exciting, learning how he feels, how he touches, how he tastes. She moves her hands to cover his, pulling them away from her skin and tangling their fingers together. It's the work of a moment to push his hands above his head, settling them against the bed and holding him there.

His fingers tighten around hers as she lifts herself and then lowers herself back down on him, feeling the long, smooth and thick length of him sliding in and out of her body. God, this. So much time they've wasted dancing around this, two steps forward, one step back, neither quite ready to commit. But she's run out of excuses, and King was never very good being patient anyway.

She leans in again, pressing her mouth against his even if it means she has to stop moving, has to stop rolling her hips down onto him as she steadies herself. He heals fast - the marks of Danica's fists and feet have already faded to faint red lines painted onto his skin, scars that will turn white then fade away completely, leaving little of Danica behind.

Ding dong the witch is dead, and good fucking riddance, as far as Abigail's concerned.

And this, God, this is what good fucking feels like.

She pulls back, staring down at him, at the way his eyes slowly open again once her lips are no longer pressed against his, once her tongue has stopped its slow, tender exploration of his mouth. He's still dazed with pleasure, lost in the feel of her and she rocks her hips again, slowly, agonisingly slowly, just to watch his eyes drift shut again.

"Jesus," he murmurs and the sound is soft, the same kind of soft, lost little sounds he's been making since she finally pushed him down onto the bed, tired of fighting against something this good. "God, you're fucking killing me here, Whistler."

She grins, sharp and feral, and he opens his eyes again in time to see it, a soft chuckle rumbling through his body and doing interesting things to her where their skin is pressed closely together. "Enjoying yourself there, sweetheart?"

She hums happily, smiling when the feel of it has King letting out a gasp, fingers tightening around hers. The pleasure is building, slow and steady, and she lets go of his hands, bracing herself against his waist this time as she straightens up, sits back down on his dick, taking him in deeper again.

It slides in more easily this time as her body adjusts to the feel of him in her. He fits, in spite of her doubts when she finally got him naked, naked and hard for her, and realised that every single thing about him was in proportion.

"God," King says again, letting out a muffled curse as she pushes herself up, slamming herself back down onto him, sharp, jangled pleasure sparking through her. "Oh, Jesus, you really **are** trying to kill me."

"Shut up, King," she mutters, too lost in the feel of him to pay any attention to his nonsense. "Just..."

She loses track of what she was saying, and there's no heat in her words anyway. All of the heat is between them, burning where his skin touches hers, hot and fiery where one of his hands is now cupping her breast, his callused thumb rolling over her nipple, leaving her aching for his next touch. She bites at her lip, moves again and again, over and over, the tension in her belly building and her thighs straining with the effort as she pushes herself towards the climax that's hanging just out of reach.

King shifts, pushing himself up into a sitting position, catching hold of her before she can tumble. In this position, he's not seated as deeply in her and she swallows down the groan of frustration, clinging to him as she tries to push further down onto him, tries to pull him closer.

He laughs again, low and throaty in her ear. "Hold on," he whispers, and then the world is turning, her back is on the soft mattress and King is bracing himself above her.

His hand slides from underneath her back, settling on the pillow next to her head as he steadies himself and pushes himself into her. Oh, God, yes. There, just like that. Maybe she even says it because King laughs again, soft and breathless as he moves just where she needs him.

She wraps her thighs around his waist, her hands moving greedily over the taut planes of his back. He's filled out nicely over the years, and she maps his body, memorising by touch what she's only seen before. Sweat pools between their bodies, the coarse, curly hair that grows above his cock rubbing against her skin as he moves in and out of her.

"More," she whispers, her short, neat nails digging into the skin of his shoulders and his waist as her hands roam restlessly over his body, wanting him as close as she can get him. "God. King. Hannibal. **More**."

"So fucking demanding," he murmurs, the words muffled where his face is pressed against her neck, his beard scratching against her skin and sending shivers through her. But he's learned to listen to her, to trust her judgement and do whatever the hell she tells him to do at least, oh, half the time, and this time he listens to her.

Thank God.

His hand shifts to her thigh, tugging it further up his body so that he can push deeper into her, making her moan, and he picks up the pace, faster and harder until she could scream with the pleasure of it. If she could catch her breath at all.

She can't - she's left making soft sounds of her own, helpless little ahs as he slams into her, shifting her body up the bed with each inward thrust and then pulling her back down again as he slides out of her, holding her tightly to him.

She'll probably have bruises tomorrow, but she doesn't care. She always has bruises and these she'll have earned. These she'll trace with her fingertips and remember pleasure instead of pain, and there's never going to be anything wrong with that picture.

"You're close, right?" King's voice is harsh and strained in her ear, the tension clear in it. "Please, God, tell me you're close."

She is, so close she can almost touch it. She lets out a sound, something that's supposed to be agreement but doesn't quite make it. "Yes," she finally gets out and it's not enough, her hands sliding down his body again, settling on his ass, her nails digging in as she struggles to pull him closer to her, closer and closer until their very bones fuse together and no one will ever be able to pull them apart.

"Yes. Yes." It becomes a litany, mindless and repetitive as King pounds into her, hard and fast and so fucking deep. She thinks King might be laughing at her again, but she can't stop, doesn't want to, all of her attention focused on the sensations building in her, on the tension pooling in her belly, sending her limbs to liquid. 

She comes hard and fast, the pleasure surging through her in rapid waves that seem to knock her feet right out from under her. She's still trembling with sharp, pleasurable little aftershocks when King tenses against her, his hips jerking two, three times as he spills into her.

"Jesus," he gasps when he's able, when he's found his voice again, breathless and hoarse. His arms are shaking and she's not surprised when he lets go, half-collapsing down onto her, his cock still buried in her but softening now.

He's heavy, but she doesn't mind the weight, not yet. She wouldn't be able to take it for long, but when he finally pulls out, rolling off her to settle by her side, it's still too soon.

"Jesus," he repeats and then he laughs, still breathless but for a second sounding so happy that it takes her breath away, too, giddy with the possibilities that are stretched out before her. She manages to summon up enough energy to roll over onto her side, facing him, drinking in the sight of him.

The look in his eyes is happy, too, as content as she's ever seen him.

"That was..."

"Yeah," she agrees, finding a smile of her own. It feels soft on her face, maybe even sappy, but she figures that she's entitled to enjoy the moment for once.

He shifts his arm, wriggling it underneath her until she's curled up against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. It's more comfortable than it should be, given how hard and muscular he is, but his skin is soft and warm, and she fits against him in the same way that he fits inside her, all of their jagged edges worn away over the years until their rough, broken patches complement one another completely.

"I'm going to go down on you later," he says sleepily, his voice a low rumbling purr. "Make you come again just so I can hear you say my name like that."

"I didn't say your name," she protests. She hadn't, had she? "When did I say your name?"

"Oh, yes you did. Right at the end there." He's laughing at her again, the bastard, but even that sound is happy enough that she doesn't really mind. "Kiii-iii-iii-ing."

She smacks him hard in the chest, swallowing down a grin, and he grabs hold of her hand so she can't do it again, tugging it down to one side.

It leaves her arm draped over his chest and she doesn't fight too hard to get free. Doesn't fight at all.

King lets out a soft, contented sound, no longer mocking her. His fingers stroke absently along her side, a gentle touch that has her eyelids drooping and her body melting into his. She's losing the battle to stay awake and it's easy to let go, shifting her leg so that it lies over his, their bodies tangling together as King pulls her closer. His breathing evens out and the slow stroking of his fingers finally stills; when she lifts her head to look at him, his eyes are closed, the lines on his face smoothing out as sleep drags him under.

She settles back down next to him, pillowing her head on his chest and closing her eyes, at peace for the first time that she can remember.

She sleeps on top, of course.

The end


End file.
